Thursday, July 05, 2007

A Short Jaunt in Cebu (Postscript)

I've noticed that departure lounges in airports are always full of little dramas and adventures - despite the fact that the air-conditioning is turned up to -10 degrees, which requires outfits made for Siberian winters, the televisions bolted to the walls are always tuned in to Discovery Channel ("The Miracle of Life," in this case), and too many white people. I have nothing against white people per se, in fact, my Secret Roommate is also white, but it's only when they start stringing along some hapless Filipina woman in too-short shorts and a top that leaves nothing to the imagination that it starts bothering me.

I'm not very fond of airport lounges as a rule, particularly for domestic flights. It's rarely comfortable, and the two-hour requirement means that you have to be prepared for the inevitability of boredom, boredom, and more boredom. But this also means more people watching: like, Ooooh, look at that guy in the tight brown shirt. He looks kinda hot. Or How do these women walk around in high heels on the plane? Look at them - I'd bet their feet are cracking from the cold. But really, it's almost like things are waiting in the balance, poised at the end of a silver string, slowly turning. I remember that Dashboard Confessional song: Hope dangles on a string/Like slow spinning redemption.

Much like my flight going to Cebu, the skies decided to open up and unleash a torrent of rain just before we boarded, making the temperature go to -20 degrees and making my toes decide that it might just be better to live underneath a rock for a while just to suck in some warmth. It doesn't help that the people at Philippine Airlines has decided to match the weather outside, and so throughout the 50-minute flight, my fingers were threatening to revolt and live in the Sahara Desert for awhile. (Thankfully, I convinced them to stay.) There were too many children on the flight. Across the aisle, one old Cebuano couple who seemed affluent enough to afford a trip out of the country (seems they were off to the States or something) were quietly talking when the passing stewardess accidentally spilled a cup of water on the woman's lap because of turbulence. They didn't make a fuss, but I was watching water drip from the tray, staining the dark blue carpet almost black. They didn't notice it, but her sandals were soaked, and so was her bag, which was also on the floor. I wondered if water drips downward as well if you're high in the air - I suppose gravity, which has no control over the plane, can still overpower a single drop of water.

In front of them, a tall American man, his face pink and peeling, was sitting beside the window with his dark Filipina (girlfriend? wife? whore?) companion. She was obviously beyond her youth: her face was lined and gaunt, her fingers tapered and callused. Her hair was tightly bound into two Pippi Longstocking-like pigtails that framed her face and made her look gauche. She was wearing a crisp white button-down and a pink tank top. Her collarbone was decorated with a heavy string of pearls. Over the music piped in through invisible speakers, I could hear her talk to the American in her halting, broken English, her fingers weaving through the air as though she could create language with her hands. I wondered what she sold, how much she had to leave behind. She looked uncomfortable as the plane took off, and I could hear her asking questions about Manila. She held an orange boarding pass in her hand; they were just on a transfer flight, probable en route to the United States. I wonder how many women have the same story as she does.

See? I told you there's a lot of stories on planes.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket


Anyway, photos from the visit - well, at least from the Nature's Legacy tour - is on Multiply already. And then, wonder of wonders, three poems on the Friendster blog. ^_^ Go on, you know you want to click the links.

No comments:

Post a Comment

This is a comment box. It is for comments. Please do not leave your Giant Squid of Anger here.